Lizzie Borden Read Free Page B

trying to alleviate them. To her surprise, a letter came right back. Beatrice had a book, she said, a book that had changed her life. “Would you mind if I presumed to send you a copy? A gift, of course. Following the program outlined in this book has allowed me to make so many changes to my living habits, I am afraid I would be quite helpless and a sheepish person if I had never come across the principles. . .”
    While Lizzie could never imagine Beatrice helpless nor sheepish, she was excited about the idea that there may be yet another method to try that would rid her of the wretched headache curse.
    And now the book had come. Lizzie held the book tightly, eager to open it, yet queerly afraid to do so. If only she could be rid of her headaches. If only she could wear peach. If only she could have a figure like Beatrice’s. If only she could be as self-assured and self-contained. If only she had good, wise advice to give to others. If only she could have her own flat in the city. . .
    She untied the string. Three brisk knocks sounded on her bedroom door. Emma opened it without a word from Lizzie. In her hand she held a white sheet of paper. Emma’s mouth was a firm line and there were lines between her eyebrows.  “Have you seen this?”
    “Seen what, Emma?”
    “This letter from Father’s attorney.”
    “No, of course not. Is it addressed to you?”
    “No, it was on the tea tray. I was cleaning it up and wanted to throw out the trash, but I thought I ought to go through it first.”
    “Is Father still sleeping?”
    “Yes.” Emma stepped in and closed the bedroom door behind her. Emma, Lizzie’s older sister, at forty-two years old, stood tall and thin, and wore the same kind of dark, heavy, clothes their father chose. She wore her brown hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her face, trying to tame the wiry graying hairs that always sprung loose. Emma had the deep brown eyes of their father, otherwise she was the very picture of their mother, with the long, thin face, the thin nose, eyes close together, shoulders sloped. Sarah Borden, Lizzie and Emma’s mother, as Fall River remembered her, had been lively enough, and pleasant enough that people looked beyond her basic unattractiveness. Emma was not. And to compound matters, the years had not been kind to her.
    “Father is deeding the farm in Swansea over to her.”
    “No, that can’t be.”
    “Here.” Emma flung the sheet of paper at Lizzie. “Read for yourself.”  Lizzie scanned the page. Emma was right. The new deed was being drawn up.
    “But that’s our farm. That’s mother’s farm.”
    “So it is. And a large portion of our inheritance.” Emma looked smug. Furious. Dangerous.
    “What are we to do?” Lizzie was flabbergasted. For anyone but Emma and her to own that property was unthinkable. They had spent summers at that farm when they were children, and while it had been rented now to tenants for twenty years or more, it still evoked strong childhood memories. Lizzie frequently daydreamed of going back to the farm to live, where life was peaceful and rhubarb pies cooled on the windowsill.
    “I don’t know what you are going to do, my dear, but I won’t stand for this. Not for a moment. That horrendous woman has that poor man so flummoxed he doesn’t know which way is up. She and her poor relations. This is somebody’s terrible idea and I intend to put a stop to it this instant.”
    “What will you do?”
    “Think, girl, what will happen if I do nothing. That cow will have us as penniless as her kin when Father dies, and I won’t stand for it.” Emma snatched the letter from Lizzie’s lap and whirled on her heel. She slammed the bedroom door so hard the walls shook.
    Lizzie listened as Emma stomped down the stairs and began to argue with their father.
    Lizzie held the package, still unopened, string dangling, to her breast and rocked back and forth, listening to the sound of angry voices, her stomach knotted so tightly